


Heels

by flyingllamas



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Light Dom/sub, Lingerie, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-02-10 08:54:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18657142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingllamas/pseuds/flyingllamas
Summary: It started as a dare fueled by alcohol and indignation in Lor'themar's office between his best friends.It's far more than a dare now as Rommath walks towards him, heel-toe, heel-toe, like a promise.





	1. The Dare

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shinyforce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinyforce/gifts).



> For Helen, who has been a wonderful friend and inspiration. Her spirit and kindness spurs me on through my own struggles and the world is infinitely better with her in it.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, beta'd by Helen! Thank you so much. <3 
> 
> The idea of Rommath in heels came up in a chat where we were wondering how tall the members of the Triumvirate were. We figured they're all fairly tall, but that Rommath might be a few inches shorter than the other two—which might lead to some teasing. Helen, I think, suggested that perhaps Rom should wear heels and it snowballed from there. This fic has been a work in progress since September and I'm glad it's finally finished. Thank you Helen, Ceci, and Astrid, for encouraging me and leaving lovely comments as I wrote.
> 
> The remaining chapters will be posted on the next two Tuesdays.

It’s a rare evening of peace for the three of them, spared from the ever-present chaos in the Spire. Though they had once been at odds with one another (really, it had been himself and Halduron at odds with Rommath), Lor’themar finds that he honestly can’t imagine a better time than this. Once upon a time, he would have considered a good evening one among the company of many, with perhaps those many in bed. He’s older now, with far more weighing on his shoulders than any man ought to have, and so this quiet moment is all he could ever want. It’s a reprieve from paperwork, from the sometimes unsolvable problems his people face that make his heart ache from his failure to give them everything they deserve, from the call of his old life in the now-too quiet forests of Quel’Thalas.

Surprisingly, it hadn’t been Halduron who had pushed past the heavy door of his office tonight without knocking, though he certainly hadn’t been far behind. Rommath had quickly dismissed nobles lurking, waiting for Lor’themar’s attention with a glare (and though he’s spent years in this man’s presence, Lor’themar is still impressed at the magnitude of his presence) before settling down primly on one of the plush chairs in front of Lor’themar’s desk. Before Lor’themar could ask what was going on, Rommath had placed a rather large bottle of wine on the desk, accompanied by Halduron leaning over his shoulder to set three wine glasses behind it. 

Nothing had been said and nothing really needs to be said as Rommath uncorks the bottle with a thin dagger pulled seemingly from nowhere and pours out three glasses of rich, red wine. Halduron sips on his with his feet up on Lor’themar’s desk and Rommath’s tense posture relaxes infinitesimally. Still, after a while of silence and almost draining his own glass, Lor’themar asks, “Not that this isn’t nice, but might I ask what the occasion is?”

Halduron snorts. “Your health.”

“More like the preservation of it,” Rommath interjects. “You’ve been working hard, but not with any amount of intelligence. A fool could see you’re suffering for your work ethic again.”

Caught again. Lor’themar sets the glass down and holds his hands up defensively, though it does nothing for the two critical stares trained on him. “Then I am so lucky as to have two friends to bring a stop to my work with rather fine wine.” He holds up his glass. “Which one of you should I thank for this?”

“Me,” Rommath says, but Halduron snickers. “Hush. I’ve already put up with more of your insolence than usual today and I will not hesitate to portal you out to a pond with our wonderfully tempered swans in it.”

Lor’themar raises an eyebrow at Halduron. Deliberately ignoring Lor’themar, Halduron plows ahead with a cheeky grin despite Rommath’s threat. “It turns out that the most powerful mage in Quel’Thalas is too short to reach the top of his own wine rack. He summoned me to reach this particular bottle.”

“Only because you dared me to go the day with neither magic nor servants, otherwise I would have been perfectly capable of obtaining it by myself. Not all of us have giants in our heritage to fall back on, Brightwing. It certainly shows in your intellect.” Still, the tips of Rommath’s ears are bright red. Lor’themar isn’t sure if he has ever seen Rommath embarrassed, and especially not about something so petty.

“Are you sure there’s not something gnomish in yours?” Halduron teases back. “I live to serve our Grand Magister, short as he is. Silvermoon would be doomed if he couldn’t reach his staff should someone put it on a high shelf.”

“That someone had better not be you!”

Perhaps it’s the strong wine (for Lor’themar’s second glass is already pitifully half empty), or perhaps it’s how tired he is, but Lor’themar finds his self control lacking when he says, “You could always wear high boots or heels, should that be the case.”

Halduron spits out a mouthful of wine onto the thankfully dark carpet, roaring with laughter, and Rommath flushes even deeper at the insinuation. “He wouldn’t, and you know it!” Halduron says. “It would destroy the mighty image he’s created for himself and he can’t have that!”

Finally finding some words through his indignation, Rommath protests, “As if such a simple thing would detract from my prestige!”

Lor’themar does _not_ like the wicked smirk on Halduron’s face. It speaks of nothing but trouble, the kind of which would get them the worst of punishments back when they were young rangers. In present times, however…

In present times, Lor’themar is sure he’s going to be the one suffering the most for whatever next comes out of Halduron’s mouth. If that’s the case, then he’s at least going to enjoy himself as long as he can. Lor’themar refills his glass and leans back in his chair to watch the squabble between his two friends.

“Then you should do it,” Halduron says slyly, leaning back further in his chair so that the front two feet are off the ground. “Wear some heels. Not boots, because that would be too easy if Tae’thelan can get away with it without being more of a social disgrace than he already is. Actual heels.”

“Are you going to dictate what color they are too, Brightwing?” Rommath might just be...more indignant than usual due to the wine in his system, but Lor’themar’s almost certain there’s something more to this entire situation than meets the eye. Halduron seems not to have picked up on it beyond the anger on the surface of Rommath’s facade and perhaps it’s for the best; but Lor’themar can see the slight tremble of Rommath’s hand holding his wine glass, can see the blush creeping up towards his face from the high collar of his robes. Lor’themar’s mind jumps to a hundred different possibilities for what could be riling up Rommath so, and none of them are good for his tipsy mind. Even just the mental image of Rommath in heels is doing entirely too much for him at the moment. He takes a long sip of his wine instead to try to calm his mind. 

It worsens his vivid imaginings. 

“Hmm, I think I will.” Halduron turns his attention back to Lor’themar, who finds himself wanting to disappear under his desk with the rest of the bottle. “What do you think, Lor? Red, to match his robes?”

Lor’themar shoots him a look that he hopes says, _don’t you drag me into your inevitable misery, you ass_ , but Rommath takes the bait. “Fine. I’ll do it. Any red will clash with my robes, but I’ll be able to blame that on your poor fashion choices.”

This has to be Lor’themar’s personal hell. 

The two continue to fuss at each other late into the night about anything and everything, set off by Lor’themar’s ill-controlled mouth. They move on past the topic of heels, but Lor’themar can’t get his mind off it. He’s somewhat successful when he manages to maneuver the rest of the bottle towards his side of the desk and it’s obvious the other two have long forgotten it in their spat. It’s not the healthiest of coping mechanisms, but that could be said for many of Lor’themar’s actions these days.

His peace only lasts as long as the bottle and the next from Lor’themar’s own liquor cabinet, though, and Lor’themar is left to imagine Rommath in more (less) than the heels and his robes. Light, he hopes that they both forget this in the hangovers that won’t happen to them (but to him) in the morning. He could only be so lucky.

Eventually, his friends take pity on him. Rommath grabs the empty bottles, giving him a reproachful look that promises scolding in the morning for another unhealthy habit worthy of his Grand Magister’s disapproval, and Halduron the glasses. Halduron is the first out the door, bidding them good night while simultaneously begging off some meeting Lor’themar has completely forgotten about in the morning with the excuse of overseeing the recent batch of would-be-rangers. Rommath lingers for but a few moments more, eyeing Lor’themar with an expression too gentle to be disdain.

“You really ought to take better care of yourself,” he says. He sets the bottles down again to reach across the desk and push the hair that has escaped from Lor’themar’s horsetail behind his ears. “Don’t stay up too late. I think you would rather I don’t face this meeting alone, for fear of my sharp tongue.”

“You’re a far better choice to be in that meeting,” Lor’themar grumbles. They both know what Rommath says is a poor excuse, as he is a better politician than Lor’themar will ever be, but the small amount of concern, of tenderness, that he lets show means much to Lor’themar. They’ve come far, from the time they actively resented and distrusted each other. It’s probably the wine, but Lor’themar wants to lean into Rommath’s touch and purr like one of the cats he knows Rommath feeds when no one’s looking. 

The smirk Rommath gives him in response does nothing for the lazy heat flaring in his stomach. Still, the Grand Magister is kind enough to not fight him on his grumbling and grabs the wine bottles again instead. “Good night. Try to get some rest, because I will drag you to this meeting even if you’re hungover.”

“Good night, Rommath.” Lor’themar watches Rommath slip out his door just as silently as he came in, and wonders if anything will come of this night. 

 

Lor’themar wishes he could say his morning was fine by the time that he’s actually capable of walking to the meeting. As Rommath had predicted, he starts his day with a hangover from drinking at least three and half of the bottles of wine from the night before (the half from Rommath’s gift, one from his cabinet, and two more from his own stash after his friends had left of a rather strong vintage) and even some powdered aspen bark and copious amounts of water haven’t done much to touch his pounding headache. 

To make matters worse, he is truly alone in his office amongst absolute mountains of paper. Normally Halduron would be around to help him tackle some of it, or even Rommath if he were feeling particularly merciful, but neither are around. Perhaps Halduron was actually being truthful when he said he had initiates to tend to, Lor’themar thinks as he doodles on his notes. It’s likely, though, that Halduron just wished to avoid his grumpiness from the hangover, and really, Lor’themar can’t blame him.

He almost forgets about the meeting, though Rommath had reminded him the night before. Many things had changed in the aftermath of the Scourge, and the congress of individuals in the Spire from all walks of life was one of the much needed changes for their recovering country. Starving farmers had no need of Magisters and Lords with no knowledge of what it meant to feed a country; similarly, those same Magisters and Lords had knowledge of military strategy and economics that otherwise went unthought of among the crops. Together, Lor’themar thought, they might find some semblance of balance, of growth that Quel’Thalas hadn’t seen in years...but only if they learned to speak with one another. 

His presence at such gatherings helped them to find such balance but if he were honest with himself, he hoped that they would find their feet sooner rather than later. Most of all, Lor’themar hoped that with their feet would come his own peace. He, Halduron, and Rommath were fine leaders through Quel’Thalas’ time of need, and fine leaders even now. Unfortunately for them all, they were chosen in a time of crisis; none of them had particularly wished for their positions or if they had, not in their present form and geared towards leading. Yes, it was far past time for them to hand the reins back to their people.

Sheepishly moving some of the mountains of paperwork to the floor and out of sight of any that would scold him (Liadrin and Rommath were the usual culprits in finding his conduct lacking for a Regent Lord, though certainly the former was more kind in her teasing), Lor’themar calls, “Enter!”

He almost doesn’t pay any mind to the door opening, so intently he tries to put forth his facade of actually working instead of daydreaming, but the strange click of a heel makes him freeze. It’s not uncommon to have noble ladies (or gentlemen, like Tae’thelan) enter his office with heels, but his morning has been so busy (falsely so, with daydreams) that quite truly, he’s forgotten the argument in his office the night before. The only person he is expecting right now is…

“Good morning,” Rommath says, softly closing the door behind him. 

Perhaps Lor’themar is imagining it, but there’s a shy, almost sheepish edge to his voice. If the following clicks ringing out through his office are not confirmation enough that Rommath is actually wearing _heels_ , the glimpse of them peeking out from under Rommath’s robes are enough. They’re red and, like Rommath insisted the night before, clash with his robes _horribly_. Even more, they appear to be open at the toe and Lor’themar can see the dark fabric of what appear to be stockings.

How far does Rommath actually plan on going with this?

Thankfully, the heels disappear by the time Rommath reaches his desk and their clicking is silenced by the heavy carpet surrounding it. 

“You look better than I expected to find you,” Rommath says blithely. “I don’t dare to ask if you’ve actually been working, though.”

“Then don’t,” Lor’themar chokes out, his voice suddenly hoarse. He clears his throat and grabs the glass of water sitting on his desk, but still Rommath smirks knowingly.

Damn his advisers and their petty squabbles.

“When you’re ready, we’ll head down to the meeting,” Rommath says. It’s obvious that Lor’themar has forgotten about the meeting after all, despite Rommath’s warnings—though Rommath is more patient than usual today of Lor’themar’s blunders. He watches quietly, though with a quirked eyebrow, as Lor’themar hurriedly collects his notes and an enchanted quill. Out of courtesy for his Grand Magister’s state (and what a state it is), Lor’themar goes ahead of him to the door and opens it. 

“Lead the way,” Lor’themar says. The smirk is still on Rommath’s face when he walks by Lor’themar, and he soon finds out why. Rommath’s hips sway ever so slightly as he walks and the clicking of the heels is back once more. It’s hardly fair to Lor’themar’s hungover mind, which can think only of Rommath clad solely in heels and stockings. 

He needs to stop. Rommath isn’t anything to him, other than his Grand Magister and friend, and his bedroom fantasies need to stay in the _bedroom_ , instead of following him to meetings. Rommath seems to at least guess at what trouble he’s causing Lor’themar’s mind and stops before the door to their meeting room, asking, “Are you well, Theron?”

His voice fails him, so Lor’themar settles for nodding slightly and holding in a sigh. He will _not_ be pulled into this mischief between Halduron and Rommath, even if he is partly the cause of it. Silvermoon needs at least one rational leader, even if he does have to drag himself out of filthy daydreams constantly. 

What a strange day this is, that he might be considered the most rational of them.

The image of Rommath ruling in his stead, sitting on the empty throne in the Spire with his robes riding up enough for all to see his stockings and heels, flashes through his head. He sees himself kneeling before that throne, so ready to serve instead of rule, and it’s enough to make his ears burn. Before Rommath can comment on it, Lor’themar finds himself yanking open the door with more force than necessary. 

Like a fool, he says, “After you.” He’s treated to the sight of Rommath sauntering into the room before him like a smug cat, hips swaying and robes riding up enough that Lor’themar can clearly see the heels and stockings underneath them. Surely, the tips of his ears and perhaps his face are crimson by now, Lor’themar thinks. However, no one else in the room has the courage to say anything about either Rommath’s heels or Lor’themar’s flushed ears, likely fearing a fireball to the face from the Grand Magister’s infamous temper, so Lor’themar is left alone in his misery.

To complicate matters, Rommath chooses to sit next to him for once. Normally, he’d hone in on the most nervous or most advantageous target he can find to intimidate or manipulate through a meeting, but today Rommath settles next to him. He’s askew enough in his chair that his robes are riding up even higher, treating Lor’themar to the sight of muscled calves with dark hair under the stockings.

How long has it been since he’s taken a partner? Lor’themar isn’t quite sure, but obviously it’s too long if this simple thing (though Rommath himself could not be called such) is getting his blood hot. He’s nowhere near full hardness, or really in any danger, but he can feel his cock stirring in his pants.

Damn Halduron for his dare. Damn Rommath for going through with it. Damn himself for liking such a thing.

It’s probably quite apparent he’s not paying attention to the meeting, but thankfully Rommath is kind enough to be taking notes and asking questions. His inattention will likely be used against him later, in whatever punishment that Rommath cooks up for him, but Lor’themar can’t find it in himself to care. It’s likely all part of this idiotic game to him, Lor’themar is sure of it. Rommath keeps looking at him occasionally out of the corner of his eye and there’s a light smirk ghosting his lips, though anyone else might think that it’s because of the nervous lords and ladies around the table. Lor’themar knows better.

It’s during one of those times he catches Rommath looking at him that his friend decides to up whatever game he thinks he’s playing with Lor’themar (and he definitely is doing something, even if Lor’themar isn’t quite sure what it is).

(How often that is, Lor’themar laments.)

Rommath uncrosses his legs, all while talking to one of the younger, more naive lords, and certainly, that action isn’t out of the ordinary by itself. Lor’themar’s legs have definitely fallen asleep during longer discussions and he’d make a fool of himself should he stand up and promptly stumble. No, what makes Rommath’s actions out of the ordinary is how he crosses his legs once more, dragging one of the heels slowly up his calf so that the edge of it catches and snags on the sheer stockings. It’s easy to imagine those heels snagging on his own clothing as Rommath traces some unknowable rune against his chest with them, all while smirking above him. 

Before he can stop it, a choked sound escapes his throat. It instantly catches the attention of everyone around the table, and one of the lords dares to ask, “Lord Regent, are you well?”

He’s about to reason away their concern, but Rommath cuts in before he can answer. “The Regent Lord has been unwell today. It is, perhaps, in his best interest to adjourn this meeting for today, so that he might be able to oversee it in his fullest capacity at another time.” A pause, and Rommath spares the room a glance that might otherwise wither plants with its intensity. “Which means that you are all dismissed. Surely the fine lords and ladies of this council have better things to do with their time than loiter about?”

The impact of his words is instantaneous. Within moments, the meeting room is emptied in a flurry of papers and demure, deferring words towards the temperamental Grand Magister. Lor’themar is left, alone, with Rommath in the chair beside him and his half-hard cock starting to tent his pants, despite the shame he feels. 

Rommath doesn’t spare Lor’themar a glance until the room is completely silent, and before he does so he makes a flicking motion with his fingers. It doesn’t take a fool, even one as big as Lor’themar, to know that the click ringing through the chamber is from Rommath locking the doors.

It is then that Rommath turns his attention back to Lor’themar. His searing gaze is heavy, accusatory, and Lor’themar curses his cowardice when he looks away. Already, he’s revealed things about himself that he would have rathered been kept in secrecy until the end of time. The Grand Magister, his spymaster, a former serpent in his court, a rare _friend_ , is the last person he wanted to have this ammunition against him.

Lor’themar is still pondering the ways in which to quickly, but painlessly, off himself before Rommath’s public humiliation does it first, when Rommath quietly rises from the chair beside him. Only the click of heels against tile pulls Lor’themar from his thoughts and still, he cannot bring himself to look up.

His gaze is still trained on the damned heels that started this all.

A light touch under his chin startles him and finally, Lor’themar looks up to Rommath. The high collar of his crimson robes does him no favors in reading Rommath’s expression, even if Rommath were normally prone to betraying many of his internal thoughts. Instead, Lor’themar is treated to the slight furrow of his eyebrows and the pink tips of his ears, likely from building rage. He has mistepped gravely, he realizes, to think of his friend in such a way. It was only a friendly dare, and Lor’themar has greatly perverted it. 

He opens his mouth to apologize, but he’s silenced once more by a musing hum from Rommath. “You’re pink enough in the face that we could pass it off as a fever, I suppose.” Rommath’s gentle grip on his chin obliges Lor’themar to tilt his head back and forth under his inspection. “Especially if I were to give you something to make your voice hoarse...either way, I doubt they’ll truly suspect what happened here.”

“And do you know what happened here?” Lor’themar chances. 

Rommath rolls his eyes. “I should surely hope so, or I might bequeath my position unto Tae’thelan for the sense he might endow upon it. Hopefully you have the same amount of sense to realize that I was hardly idle in this entire ordeal.”

At the admission, Lor’themar’s mouth goes dry. He glares up at the mage before him. “Then to what end? My humiliation?”

The hand drops from his chin. Rommath cocks his head slightly and hums in consideration. “Mostly my own amusement, of course. I didn’t count on you to break so soon, nor to be so loud; it could have meant no end of trouble for us both. Still, you’re hardly the only one affected.”

Lor’themar lets his gaze drop from Rommath’s face, down the line of his body, until he comes across a sight he never expected. To the untrained eye, particularly one unfamiliar with Rommath, the slight swell near his navel could be excused as his unreasonably heavy robes bunching up. Rommath is ever impeccable in his manner and dress, however, so such a fold would never happen. 

Combined with the pink tips of Rommath’s ears (though it’s quickly becoming not just the tips anymore), Lor’themar realizes that Rommath is in the exact same boat as he is. Aroused, frustrated, confused as to where they stand—Rommath has tentatively given up some ground with his admission, so that they might stand together as equals in this situation. Something almost like nervousness is alight in Rommath’s eyes, though the Grand Magister would never lower himself to such an unflattering emotion, and Lor’themar knows he needs to take the next step forward.

Chuckling dryly, with no end of self-deprecation, Lor’themar reaches out a hand that would find home on Rommath’s hip, if he chooses to accept the invitation as it is. “Who knew that a light challenge between friends would land us in such trouble?”

Hesitating for but a moment, Rommath steps forward into his touch. The click of heels once more sends shivers racing down Lor’themar’s spine and his mind can’t quite seem to land on what he wants Rommath to do to him. Anything and everything the man has in mind, likely. “Perhaps I was selfish to do so, but I intended this trouble when the day started,” Rommath murmurs. Lor’themar, still sitting, traces a hand down his side and then down his front, to gently rub Rommath’s cock through the thick cloth of his robes with two knuckles. His knuckles just barely catch on the ridge of its head, and Light, Lor’themar wishes Rommath’s robe wasn’t in the way, that he could hold and stroke Rommath’s cock to his heart’s content. Rommath’s hips twitch forward into Lor’themar’s touch, wanting more, but the magister reels himself back in. 

“As much as I’m sure we’re both enjoying this—” Rommath is interrupted by his own choked-off moan as Lor’themar continues to play with his cock through his robes, “—this is hardly the best place to do so.”

“Really? I would have never guessed,” Lor’themar teases, “considering you were the one who initiated this here.”

Rommath’s ears flush fully red and Lor’themar can see a blush starting to creep over the bridge of his nose. “Not my best idea, nor my most well thought out.”

“Another thing I would have never guessed or thought I would be witness to in my lifetime,” says Lor’themar. 

His jest is met with a sharp pain shooting up from his foot. He can’t help the loud moan that escapes him, barely muffled by a thankfully quick hand against his mouth. Rommath digs the sharp heel of his left foot further into the instep of Lor’themar’s soft leather shoe, grinding down with verve. It’s a waste that he’s not stepping elsewhere, Lor’themar thinks, but this will do for now. 

Lor’themar’s hand returns to Rommath’s hip and hauls him in so that the Grand Magister is sitting on his lap, though not in the position Lor’themar necessarily wants him in. He’d rather have Rommath straddling him, but his long, heavy robes make that impossible. They’re short enough that they still ride up on Rommath’s calves, though, and Lor’themar is treated to a closer, more personal view of what Rommath is wearing underneath. The image of sheer black stockings that do nothing to hide his leg hair combined with red, open toe shoes sets Lor’themar’s imagination ablaze with all the things he wants to do to Rommath...and have Rommath do to him in turn.

“Theron!” Rommath hisses. Lor’themar might be a little more intimidated if Rommath hadn’t hooked an arm around his neck, carefully balancing on his lap. His ears are also the reddest that Lor’themar’s ever seen on him, even when more than a little tipsy. “Not here!”

“You locked the door,” Lor’themar purrs. This boldness is unlike him, but the floodgates have been opened and years of isolation and loneliness are pouring through. It’s been so long since he’s had a partner and Rommath seems more than a little enthusiastic. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No, but how easy would it be for some imbecile like Aethas to—ah!” Rommath’s complaint is cut short by a sound that is more of a moan than a gasp, yet lays somewhere in between. Lor’themar has busied himself with tracing down one of Rommath’s legs with a feather-light touch. He can’t help smirking at Rommath responding so eagerly when his fingers barely ghost over the stockings. To his credit, the magister in his lap does look to be a little ashamed for singing out his pleasure so forthcomingly. Lor’themar might say he likes nothing more than to hear Rommath moan—but that would be a lie, for nothing can top seeing Rommath in stockings. His admiration of Rommath’s stockings keeps him from plunging his tongue into Rommath’s mouth and silencing him, but the agony of keeping his lips separate from Rommath’s skin is too much; he settles on mouthing at Rommath’s neck. 

Still, Lor’themar pulls back reluctantly after he’s finished stroking down the stockings. Rommath has a point—a regular locked door hardly stops anyone in the Sunfury Spire (especially insistent archmages with nothing better to do but to irritate volatile, handsome Grand Magisters). His hesitation is enough to allow Rommath to push off of him, looking equal parts aroused and infuriated.

“I can’t believe you did that here!” Rommath hisses. “You’re shameless!” He’s desperately trying to smooth out his robes to hide both his erection and stockings once more, but anyone with eyes (or an eye) could see that it’s his way of trying to center himself back into the calm facade of the Grand Magister.

“I can’t believe you actually went through with a childish dare,” says Lor’themar in turn. Rommath’s reticence and shame gives him pause for a moment; perhaps he had been too forward when there hadn’t been an invitation to begin with. “...Was my reaction not what you were hoping for? I apologize if my advances were not welcome.”

Rommath freezes at his words, eyes still downcast towards some imaginary wrinkle in his robes. Lor’themar can almost hear the gears grinding in his head as Rommath thinks through whatever likely sharp response he’ll lob at Lor’themar. Dread sinks like a hot coal in his stomach, followed quickly by nausea. He’s always been careful to ensure that his lovers are wanting and willing, but in his lonely haste he’s neglected to do so this time. 

“Your reaction wasn’t what I was expecting, no,” Rommath says finally, “but it was not...unwelcome.”

Cool relief trickles down Lor’themar’s spine and he reaches out to touch Rommath once more, to bring him forward into his lap again. Rommath steps out of his reach with a click of his heels, shaking his head. “It was not unwelcome, but it was unwise. We are both fools, to have taken such a risk like this.”

“Rommath…” Lor’themar rises from his chair, to assuage the guilt and shame building in the man before him, but it’s too late. The mask of Grand Magister is firmly back in place despite the red heels and Rommath bristles visibly at the offer of comfort.

“No, Lor’themar,” he says in a quiet voice and then, in a more rigid, icy tone Lor’themar typically only hears used towards others: “I wish you luck in recovering from your ‘ailment’, Lord Regent. Perhaps I will see you on the morrow.”

With clicking heels, Rommath lets himself out of the room before Lor’themar can react. Lor’themar sits stunned, arousal flagging in him as though he’s been dipped in a cold bath (and perhaps he has, with the reality of the situation hitting him), staring after where his Grand Magister left him.

It’s a small blessing that Rommath announced to the room that he hadn’t been feeling well—Lor’themar is left largely to his own devices for the rest of the day. Had he not just gone through such a...shocking? shameful? situation, he would have gladly hopped on a hawkstrider and spent the rest of the day and night cavorting under the stars in the forests. As it is, though, Lor’themar finds himself back in his office first, staring at paperwork that wouldn’t get done anyway for entirely too long.

It has taken years to cultivate the level of trust he has—or had—with Rommath. The man has always been a recluse, and distrustful, and even in recent years that has hardly changed. Both of them had been thrown into their positions without asking and it had taken a while to adjust to that and each other. Lor’themar thought they’d gotten to a point of mutual understanding, of friendship, of quiet nights like the one before where they could forget about political agendas playing them off each other and just _be_. 

Now, because of his own stupidity, Lor’themar isn’t sure. Even though his advances had been welcome, it might have been enough to scare off Rommath. To him, each action was double sided in meaning; perhaps he thought Lor’themar was attempting to manipulate him in some way or trying to get a leg up on him. Having realized the risk, Rommath had thrown up walls. To seemingly have betrayed his trust, especially in such an intimate way? It might as well have been a death knell to whatever relationship they had, platonic or not.

Knowing that he’ll get even less done than usual, Lor’themar decides to retire to one of the private gardens near the Spire for what remains of the afternoon. He’s able to shoo away a somewhat concerned retinue with the excuse of getting fresh air for his ‘illness’, for a short moment of otherwise rare peace. However, word of his plight has apparently reached the kitchens and he finds himself with a rather generous pot of ginger tea and a plate of bland sandwiches. The care is nice, but the lack of flavor is less so. 

Even Halduron is less than inclined to stay long. After a hasty report and a gentle reprimand to rest more, his best friend disappears into the Spire once more and Lor’themar is left alone in the garden. His only companions are the quietly trilling birds and his own conscience. It’s an ailment in itself, for truly the only things that plague Lor’themar still are a sore heart and sore instep. Tipping his head back to enjoy a breeze that plays with the ends of his hair, he impishly wonders if he’ll be able to see the imprint of Rommath’s heel on his skin.

He’s not sure how much time passes with his eyes closed—likely entirely too much for the amount of working awaiting him, and entirely too little for his own health—but Lor’themar’s ears prick up at the soft sound of footsteps against the cobblestone path of the gardens. 

“Lord Regent?” A young elf hovers at the entrance to the garden, several feet away. Her robes suggest she’s not yet made even the lowly role of an arcanist within the Magisterium—still in training, then, and still eager and green enough to play the role of an errand runner. Lor’themar inclines his head as greeting and holds out a hand for the envelope that he sees in her own. Hesitantly, the mage approaches and presents it to him.

“Thank you.” The words are both gratitude and a dismissal, and thankfully the mage realizes that. She turns on her heel as he studies the envelope. 

_See me after dinner. I have a cure for what ails you._

_-R_

To anyone else the letter would seem to be a kindness, especially from the frigid Grand Magister and with the now-common knowledge of his ‘illness’. To Lor’themar, it’s an offer—a tentative door opened, one easily shut and ignored, never again remembered. It tells him that despite his doubts, despite all logic, Rommath isn’t angry. Relief is quickly pushed aside by arousal, though, and once more Lor’themar is glad for the solitude of the garden. He shouldn’t go, shouldn’t ruin their friendship, but Lor’themar already knows he will. He can’t stay away.

A cure indeed, he thinks. His only response is the sudden throb of his aching foot.


	2. The Cure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to Astrid, Ceci, and Helen!

The suspense of his impending encounter with Rommath builds through dinner. It’s the only thing to keep Lor’themar from going crazy through yet another meal of bland foods, but at least he’s not alone in his torture. While Rommath might be missing from his dinner table, Halduron is in his usual spot. Normally both of his advisers at least make time to take dinner with him, if only to clear up any miscommunications that might have arisen during the day. 

His presence is keenly missed and not just by Lor’themar.

“Did you make him ill, too?” Halduron asks. He makes a face at the bland soup that’s been served to him. “I think I miss these dinners more often than he does these days.”

Lor’themar sips at his tea, for sadly there’s not any wine at the table tonight. “Of a sort, I suppose. He should be better by morning.”

Hopefully he will, as well. Hopefully this doesn’t end with Rommath humiliating him for the perceived slight of the incident earlier in the day. 

Thankfully, Halduron takes his answer at face value. Halduron might have somewhat of a head for politics, but not entirely like the mind that Lor’themar has gained for it. He is first and foremost a military man, something that Lor’themar laments when he looks out over the forest. Despite his restlessness in his post, he wouldn’t take that away from his friend.

Halduron slips out to check on the evening patrols not long after finishing his food and Lor’themar is left alone once more. He takes a breath and then another, steeling his nerves, before rising from his chair and leaving the dining room. 

Unlike himself, Rommath doesn’t keep separate quarters from the Spire. At least, he doesn’t uphold the farce of keeping separate living quarters—he has at least one estate that Lor’themar knows of, but Rommath freely admits to spending most of his time at the Spire. Perhaps he has the right idea, for Lor’themar spends entirely too much energy traveling back and forth when he would just get better rest by staying in the Spire. 

That dilemma is enough to keep him distracted on his walk to the Grand Magister’s quarters. All too soon he finds himself before the heavy, ebony doors with no real idea how to go about this. Despite his rather long dry streak he’s the Regent Lord of Quel’thalas, handsome and charming (or so he’s been told), good enough for anyone. 

But Rommath isn’t just anyone.

And this train of thought is doing him no favors.

Before he can lose his nerve once more, Lor’themar knocks on the door. It would be a death wish to enter Rommath’s chambers without doing so, and the only death wish he has today is for a little one. 

Strangely, it takes a beat longer than he expects for Rommath to call out, “Enter!”, but perhaps he’s distracted. Rommath has always had a better work ethic than him, and likely the man is actually sieving through the paperwork he’s stolen from Lor’themar’s own desk. Certainly, it appears to be the case when he enters the room—Rommath sits behind his desk, his attention captured by the papers in front of him…though Lor’themar can’t help but notice that the pile is smaller than it usually is, or the way that Rommath’s eyes flicker up to meet his. 

Yet another strange thing is how Rommath is dressed. Usually he doesn’t deviate beyond the garb that comes with his office, but tonight he’s wearing something that looks to be a silk dressing robe that ties in the front. Rommath says nothing until Lor’themar finishes his inspection. Even still, his silence lasts long enough that when he shifts in his chair, a muffled click rings out through the room.

Still wearing the damned heels, then.

“You answered my summons,” says Rommath. Immediately, Lor’themar is on the defensive—it’s not like Rommath to beat around the bush. 

“I did. A letter from the Grand Magister is never to be ignored. Tell me, did you bring me here to laugh at me? To further drive home the humiliation from earlier? Let me assure you, I’ve learned the lesson of treading into territory I’ve no business being in.”

The tips of Rommath’s ears turn red, likely from the same indignation that seems to be showing on his face. “Is that what you truly think, after all these years? That I’d summon you here to watch you wallow about in your misery?”

“Is that not what you’re doing now, behind your desk?” 

Rommath studies him for a moment in silence before rising from his desk. When Rommath steps around it, Lor’themar can see that the black silk robe only hits him at about mid thigh. From underneath it, straps from some sort of garter belt hold up the damnable stockings that Rommath is still wearing. All of it is enough to make him forget the heels before they click once more against the dark hardwood floors of Rommath’s office.

Lor’themar stands stock still as Rommath approaches him. He hasn’t lost the sway of his hips from earlier, nor the way that he walks heel-toe, heel-toe like a promise. Rommath circles Lor’themar once, twice, before standing chest to chest with him. His mouth is so close that Lor’themar could just lean down and kiss him, his body so close that Lor’themar could grab him by his hips and end this insufferable teasing, but he won’t. Not until he’s sure that he’s not being toyed with between Rommath’s paws and claws. 

Rommath’s pupils are large and dark beyond the glint of Light and distant fel of his eyes as he studies Lor’themar’s face, searching for some unknown thing. At last, he speaks.

“You’re right, I was enjoying your misery behind my desk. Perhaps that was unfair.” Rommath’s breath is hot against his lips. Without warning, a heel digs sharply into Lor’themar’s instep once more and he can’t help the groan that escapes him. “Allow me to enjoy your misery closer to you, where I can mete it out instead of you creating it for yourself...as usual.”

Unable to keep up his hard-won composure, Lor’themar’s hands find purchase on Rommath’s hips and drag him forward to rid what little space is between them. Rommath stumbles, likely twisting his ankle slightly, but right now Lor’themar can’t find it in himself to care. His mouth finds Rommath’s own and their kiss turns wet and filthy, Rommath moaning into it. He can feel the hard line of Rommath’s cock under the robe but...it’s not tenting out like it should be. 

Lor’themar moves one of his hands from Rommath’s hips to push the robe up and cup his ass. He finds soft lace there, fine enough to catch on the calluses of his fingers, and his breath hitches almost painfully. The thought of fucking Rommath roughly over his desk fills his mind briefly but Lor’themar reins himself back in reluctantly. Taking Rommath in such a way wouldn’t do the man justice and he’s also fairly certain that Rommath would murder him if any of his meticulous paperwork was ruined, mind blowing sex or not.

Instead, he digs his fingers into Rommath’s ass and squeezes hard enough that the mage will likely have bruises in the shape of his prints come morning. Rommath makes a faint sound of protest, but it quickly turns into a quiet moan. Ever complaining for the sake of it, even when he has nothing to complain about. “Do you want me to stop?” Lor’themar asks, though he suspects that not to be the case. Rommath shakes his head. “Then hush, if you’ve nothing important to say.”

Before Rommath can give voice to the indignant feelings that are surely welling up inside him, Lor’themar hikes him up and against him, hands holding him up by his ass. The position is two-fold: it allows Lor’themar to give thought to _what_ , exactly, he ought to do next with Rommath, as well as to grind the magister up against him. Strategizing has always been more of Rommath’s strength than his own, though, and so Lor’themar finds his thoughts lost in the warmth and pleasure of feeling Rommath grind up against his cock. 

The victorious smirk on Rommath’s face would be infuriating, if his face wasn’t flushed with need as well.

He doesn’t want to part from Rommath, at least not for long, but they _need_ to talk about whatever this is, whatever they’re doing, beyond taunt-like flirting and Rommath traipsing around in whatever lace lays beneath his dressing robe. It serves as an invitation, but not much else and Lor’themar is loath to tread where he is not welcome. Neither have the time for much more than this and misunderstandings will only serve to shorten whatever will happen tonight.

Keeping Rommath pressed up against him, Lor’themar makes his way towards Rommath’s desk. Rommath, of course, does his best to make Lor’themar drop him, nipping harshly enough at the tendons in his neck that Lor’themar feels a warm trickle of blood race down his skin to ruin the fine shirt he (mistakenly) wore for the occasion of dealing with this magister-turned-lynx.

The bites that will surely show in the morning aren’t the only challenge Lor’themar faces in carrying Rommath. It’s with no small amount of pride that Lor’themar continues to hold him up; despite years of being a statesman he still has his strength, and Rommath isn’t the lightest person he’s ever picked up. One might be tempted to call Rommath light just looking at him, in the way that most mages seem to be, but Lor’themar finds he’s exactly the opposite—all lean, heavy muscle from years of physical conditioning and stalking after Magisterium apprentices up to no good (as well as a Ranger General and Regent Lord trying to shirk work).

The moment breaks when Lor’themar sets Rommath on his desk and accidentally knocks over a neatly ordered stack of paperwork. The sound of paper hitting the floor shifts Rommath’s attention away from his neck and Lor’themar feels the tension snap back into Rommath’s body like a whip. It’s the same as earlier; a moment’s distraction and Rommath seems ready to flee. 

Determined to not let the moment slip away from them once more, Lor’themar gently cups Rommath’s face and tries to coax him into another kiss. Rommath refuses to let himself be guided and keeps his gaze averted towards some unseeable thing off in the corner of the room. Lor’themar steps back slightly, retracting his other hand from where it still rests on Rommath’s ass and instead sets it on his leg in a firmly neutral zone. He hopes it’s perhaps comforting to him, but knows it’s likely not.

A long moment passes before Rommath says quietly, “You must think me either sick or a fool, or some combination of the two.” 

“Not at all,” Lor’themar says. He’s trying not to overwhelm Rommath with his reactions; lauding him with praise right now won’t get him anywhere. Instead, he tries, “I’m the one who answered your invitation.”

“ _My_ invitation, yes. This was my idea, to wear... _this_ ,” he gestures at the dressing robe and stocking and heels; Lor’themar can’t quite see what’s wrong with it all, but he’ll hear Rommath out, “and bare my wants to you in such a manner. It’s foolish. Wrong.”

Lor’themar gives a hum as he considers the situation. He can’t help but say, “For what it’s worth, you’re gorgeous and even more so in this; I don’t think this is so out of the ordinary as you think.”

“But for a Grand Magister? I don’t think you understand the severity of the situation, Lor’themar.”

“Then answer me this: what would have happened had I not been the one to walk through that door?” Lor’themar ponders aloud. “Would you pounce on any visitor like a lynx in heat? Or would you put yourself to rights before you could be humiliated?”

Rommath gives him a flat look, though the tension in his body seems to almost bristle through his skin. “Truly, you don’t give me enough credit. Those who walk through my office doors only do so by my leave. Any unwelcome visitors would find it most difficult to disrupt my work.” 

“You’ll have to teach me how to do that, then, or enchant my doors with a similar spell. I might get more work done with fewer interruptions.”

“I should think not,” Rommath scoffs. “You’ll get even less work done. I’ll find you sleeping on your desk even more than usual or drinking like a fish.”

It’s true and they both know it. Lor’themar lets out a quiet, slightly ashamed chuckle and, surprisingly, Rommath is quick to join. His laugh is much more mirthful than his own and Lor’themar finds that joy (and arousal, for Rommath’s face and ears are still flushed a pretty red) is a look that he enjoys on Rommath. Some of the tension finally melts out of Rommath’s body, but not enough for Lor’themar’s liking. 

“Answer my question,” Lor’themar gently implores. “It mattered that it was me at the door, did it not?”

“Yes.” Rommath’s answer is reluctant, as though Lor’themar were torturing him instead of comforting him.

“It’s because you trust me, yes?” No answer, but Lor’themar doesn’t expect one. Not yet, anyway. “Trust me now when I say that nothing about this changes my perception of you, other than perhaps casting you in a new light that I selfishly enjoy more than I should. Neither still would I betray you. You are first and foremost my friend; you are safe when I am here, and will be after I leave. Please don’t doubt me, or yourself.”

Rommath’s ears flick back as he considers this, a habit Lor’themar knows he’s been trying to kick for years. It’s usually one of the only indicators of how Rommath might be feeling behind the high collar of his robe. Without it to hide behind, Rommath is almost an open book to him; others still might have trouble reading the solemn mage, but Lor’themar sees the fear, the reticence, the _want_ on his face. He’s walking a tightrope of emotion and indecision…

All Rommath needs is some encouragement to take what he wants.

Gently, Lor’themar cups Rommath’s face once more and guides him into a sweet kiss. Thankfully, Rommath doesn’t resist or fight him this time around. This isn’t what he expected to be doing considering how the night started, but he’s never been one to deny a lover what they need. With some kindling, the embers from earlier will kick up into a blazing storm, he’s sure. 

Soon enough, Rommath wrests back control. The chaste kiss turns slick and dirty, and he paws at Lor’themar’s shirt. One moment Rommath’s teasing underneath its hem, fingers stroking the trail of hair leading under his trousers and the next he’s pinching at Lor’themar’s nipples through the blood stained fabric.

Pulling back from a biting kiss that he knows will leave his lips bruised tomorrow, Lor’themar asks, “Should I take this as my cue to move this to your bedroom?”

“You should have taken the hint a while ago.” Before Lor’themar can return the petulant sentiment, Rommath latches back onto his neck and grabs him roughly through his trousers. It hurts, but Lor’themar never asked for gentleness; he knows Rommath doesn’t want it either, now that he’s caught fire once more.

It takes some effort to scoot Rommath towards the edge of his desk once more to try to pick him up. The damn fiend won’t stop biting his neck like some sort of San’layn and he’s intentionally being difficult to spite Lor’themar’s earlier kindness, as much as he needed it. Still, the reward for getting him there is more than worth it. When Lor’themar traces the backs of his legs, dipping under one of the belts to do so, the shudder that wracks through Rommath’s body is intensely satisfying. 

Even more satisfying to Lor’themar is being able to pick up Rommath once more in the pause given by his actions. Rommath renews his attack on his neck and now his earlobes, but that can’t stop Lor’themar from carrying him to the adjoining bedroom. Not that it particularly seems that Rommath wants to, since he’s wrapped his legs around Lor’themar again. Lor’themar manages to stop his biting when he captures Rommath’s mouth in a wet kiss once more, but it brings a new, exquisite torture when Rommath grinds up against him with each kiss. 

The only stop they make is when Lor’themar fumbles with the door handle, too jittery and excited to properly puzzle out the simple handle. Rommath lets out an exaggerated sigh and the door opens; it’s only after pushing through that Lor’themar realizes that there is a glow about his fingers.

“I can’t believe I had to open that for you. Truly, sitting at a desk every day has rusted what little brain the Farstriders left you with.”

“Perhaps I should be let off my leash every now and then to preserve it.” Lor’themar lets go of Rommath, letting him settle on the edge of a plush bed he’s never seen before. It fits Rommath, covered in dark silks and decadence...though it seems barely used. Before Rommath completely lets go, he leaves one more bite on Lor’themar’s neck.

“So you acknowledge your lack of brains, then? I never thought the day would come that you’d agree with me. If only Brightwing would express such wisdom now...” Rommath trails fingers with sharp nails down his clothed chest, the dressing robe falling off one of his shoulders to reveal a lace strap that looks as though it might have been dipped in his blood. For all he knows, it might have been

Lor’themar grunts at the sparks of pain, but it only serves to fuel the hardness of his cock in his pants. “Any fault in my mental faculties today comes from blood loss, _since someone won’t stop biting me._ ” He tries to yank at the tie of Rommath’s robe, but he’s swatted away.

“I’ll not have you ruining this with your boorish handling.” Even so, Rommath picks at the knot holding the robe closed. It seems to Lor’themar like he’s purposely going slow. 

Knowing Rommath, he is.

“Lingerie is meant to be torn!” Lor’themar insists. “It’s part of the fun, like unwrapping a gift.”

Rommath huffs. “Might I remind you this gift has _fangs and flames_? These were expensive! They’re meant to be worn more than once, mind you!”

Any response Lor’themar might have had, such as asking how many times Rommath has worn such a thing under his clothes, dies when the dressing robe silently falls to the bed in a silken puddle around him. Blood red lace covers Rommath’s torso, a split-front camisole held up by two straps at his shoulders and shyly obscene panties dipping teasingly between his legs. It’s almost wrong to see the cock Lor’themar’s felt grinding up against him trapped under it, straining against its lace prison. Completing the image are the belts and straps holding up the knee high stockings and, as ever, the heels on his feet. They’re not the same color as the lace, though something tells Lor’themar that Rommath might have another set that matches.

Barely managing to tear his eyes away, Lor’themar notices that Rommath has gone stock-still once more. His legs are pushed together tightly, denying Lor’themar any ability to get closer, and there’s that same frisson of fear hiding in Rommath’s face. Lor’themar wants to tell him to let go, to be confident and take what he wants because Lor’themar certainly isn’t going to be the one to stop him, but he holds his tongue. Rommath seems to respond better to their back-and-forth teasing, to staying in this odd grey space, to taking back control when it’s offered to him. 

Instead, Lor’themar reaches out to trace the straps up to the lace and says, “A gift indeed.”

It seems to chase some of the tension out of his friend. Rommath reclines back on his elbows and spreads his legs slightly, so that Lor’themar might step between them. “Do you think you’re deserving of such a gift?”

“Perhaps.” Laying a hand on Rommath’s chest, Lor’themar gently traces down it to where his cock is trapped and back up. He’s pleased to see Rommath’s hips lift slightly at his touch, silently begging for more. Perhaps the light touch is torture for Rommath, who’s been trapped all day under such a garment, but Lor’themar’s neck and cock scream for vengeance for their own brand of torture.

His actions aren’t without retaliation. Rommath pulls back one of his legs and presses it between Lor’themar’s own, the heel trailing up Lor’themar’s left leg as it rises. “I don’t think you are. I’ve judged you and found you wanting.”

“Of you.” 

Rommath lets out an undignified sound that, if he were anyone else, Lor’themar might call a snort. “Your honeyed words don’t impress me,” he says. Lor’themar hears the mischief building in his tone. Instead of spurring worry, it stokes the fire of arousal inside him. Such mischief has only had pleasurable, if blood stained, consequences tonight. 

Rommath plucks Lor’themar’s hand from his chest and shoves it back at him. Sitting up fully, he demands, “Take your shirt off and kneel on the floor.” 

Lor’themar doesn’t hesitate; he _can’t_ , if he wants this to keep going. They’re in a fragile balance, with Rommath holding all the cards but showing his hand. Any pauses or stuttering on his part may shatter Rommath’s confidence in the moment, in their actions, in the careful trust he has put in him, and Lor’themar won’t allow that to happen. He pulls off his shirt, his skin pulling at where his blood has glued the fine fabric to it, and kneels on the floor a little way from the bed.

He realizes he’s shaking, but Rommath is too. _From lust? Fear? Anticipation?_ _Maybe some combination of them all?_ He’ll find out soon enough, he supposes.

Indeed, Rommath carefully pushes himself up from the bed and stands steadily on the heels in a way that bespeaks of years of experience. It’s so tempting to reach out and touch him as he approaches, to trace the toned legs covered in either stockings or unfamiliar dark hair, so unlike his own. He restrains himself, though, knowing that Rommath is both petulant and punishing; a hair out of place, a toe over the line, will leave him with a hard cock and no relief. 

When Rommath finally stands before him, Lor’themar calls on the steel will he refined in his years as a Farstrider. It seems almost indecent to use such a skill in this way, but he has few other uses for such a thing now. Perhaps the last time he wielded it in such force was dealing with the other leaders of the Horde. 

How mighty and challenging Rommath is, then, to demand such a thing of him, to continue to do so, all the while being a near-rhapsodic vision in blood-red lace. Lor’themar can clearly see Rommath’s cock straining against the well-tailored fit of the panties (for what else can he call them) and he imagines that he might smell, nearly taste the drip of precum darkening the delicate fabric. 

Lor’themar’s ruminations are banished from his mind when Rommath tangles a hand into his top knot, deftly pulling out the ties holding his hair away from his face. Only the braids on his shoulders remain and soon, those too are gone. It’s a foreign feeling to have his hair down in such a way. Even at night, Lor’themar is often too tired to loosen the ties and free his hair and he’ll redo them one at a time in the morning. 

When at last the final wisp of hair settles down, Rommath finally bothers to look Lor’themar in the eye. The look he’s treated with is considering...and plotting. “I’m not sure when I last saw you with your hair down. It’s a treat, but even like this, I’m not sure you deserve anything.”

He desperately wants to object, _I do—hardly, but I do!_ , but Lor’themar’s always believed that actions speak louder than words. With great zeal, he leans forward to mouth at the outline of Rommath’s cock through the lace, his hands finding purchase once more on the back of Rommath’s thighs. The wet splotch on the fabric tastes _exactly_ how he imagined it would, and despite barely encountering it, Lor’themar knows even just remembering it will make his mouth water in the future. 

The taste is only one part of such a transcendental experience: the small sound Rommath lets out, the way he tips his head back, the unfamiliar look of pleasure on his face all makes Lor’themar’s cock throb almost painfully. He’s been hard since they were in Rommath’s office, since he realized Rommath was serious about this entire endeavour. He feels an inch away from losing his mind, like some sort of eager youth, and for once, Lor’themar couldn’t be happier about it.

Fingers still tangled in his hair yank Lor’themar away from his new fixation, from where he’s tracing the outline of Rommath’s cock with his tongue, and he wants to groan at first. Some frisson of fear races through him and he wonders if he’s gone too far, pushed Rommath too hard. Looking up through his lashes reveals that Rommath’s panting, hard, but he doesn’t seem upset. Rather the opposite—the look on his face seems almost amazed... and _wanting_.

Despite knowing what dire consequences likely await him, Lor’themar asks, “Do you find me worthy now of whatever ‘gift’ you have for me?”

Instantly, Rommath’s lip curls up into a sneer. Lor’themar’s taken back control that Rommath feels is rightfully his, and for a moment, Lor’themar thinks he’s misjudged—perhaps such a jab will earn him a lonely night, instead of more delicious torture. Instead, Rommath barks, “On your back, Theron. Hands above your head. And for the love of the Light, _keep your mouth shut_.”

Lor’themar is all too happy to comply. His imagination goes wild as he lays back, at least a little thankful that Rommath has chosen to decorate his chamber with plush rugs instead of just the bare hardwood underneath them. Rommath studies his prone form for a moment with a stare that seems intimately familiar to Lor’themar. It takes a moment to realize that Rommath is treating him as a challenge as well, much like he would a tough political situation or a complex treatise at the Magisterium. 

It’s flattering, in a way, to be considered like this. Lor’themar’s not sure if Rommath is trying to judge how best to pleasure him or himself, but he anticipates whatever the plan the magister comes up with either way. He does, at least, until Rommath carefully plants a foot on either side of his torso, trapping Lor’themar between the bright red heels.

“How desperate are you, I wonder,” Rommath murmurs, almost to himself. “What would it take to shatter you into pieces?” He shifts his weight to one foot and, with elegant grace, plants the other on Lor’themar’s chest. The toe of his heel rests on the hollow of Lor’themar’s throat; it’s definitely pressing down, but not painfully so. Not yet. The spike of the heel, on the other hand, will likely leave a small bruise on his chest. 

Any response Lor’themar has dries up in his throat. He wants to touch Rommath, to worship the heel and its owner with a strange zeal he’s never realized he had inside him. He wants to force Rommath to drag the sharp heel down his chest, leaving behind a scratch or cut he’ll feel for days. He wants to treat Rommath to his own sharp words, to wrest back control and stop this humiliation.

Most of all, he wants something to _happen_ , instead of being stuck in this strange limbo of inaction and arousal.

Rommath lets him agonize for a beat more, before finally starting to drag the heel down his chest. All Lor’themar finds himself able to do is groan and arch up into the sharp heel. It shouldn’t be this good, but _it is_. His mind races to fill in the gaps of what’s happening: will Rommath just tease him over and over with this game? Will take this lower, forcing him to take off his trousers so that he might torture (and relieve) his straining cock?

The reality of it turns out to be an exhilarating mix between the two. Rommath repeats the path of the heel once, twice, three times, scoring red marks into Lor’themar’s skin. He lets it catch on the waistband of Lor’themar’s trousers, almost starting to pull them down before retreating once more. 

By the time that the order finally comes to divest himself of his pants and free his cock, Lor’themar almost cries in relief. What new torture is this, he thinks, to be teased in such a way? He’s only able to push his trousers and small clothes down around his knees before Rommath’s pushing him down to the floor once more with the wide part of his sole against his chest. The magister switches feet, allowing one leg to rest. 

All the while, Rommath is watchings him: judging, considering...enjoying. He’s surprisingly gentle when he drags the toe of his ruby red shoe against the underside of Lor’themar’s cock, pushing it enough so that it points back towards his stomach. Lor’themar’s heart is in his throat, he’s almost lightheaded. The rational part of him wonders how he could possibly be aroused by this and marvels at Rommath’s steadiness.

That steadiness is needed when Rommath lines up both the flat outsole and sharp heel against his cock and, ever so carefully, _presses down_.

With a cry, Lor’themar comes violently, his back arching and head slamming back against the floor. He can’t even spare the smallest part of his foggy brain to marvel that his cum has hit his chin, nor that Rommath has stepped back to watch his body arch off the ground with a rather smug look on his face. He only knows that his vision has greyed out and that when he comes to, Rommath is kneeling near him, pushing back his wild hair from his face. There’s almost something that seems like concern on his face...but it quickly evaporates once Rommath realizes he's returned to his senses. 

Equally as fleeting is Rommath himself, who quickly rises to his feet once Lor’themar’s eye has locked on his once more. Rommath carefully steps over his chest so that he’s straddling Lor’themar with his feet once more. This time, though, he isn’t interested in torturing Lor’themar with his damnable heels. 

Rommath has a much better, much more torturous plan apparently.

He might have complained about blood loss scrambling his senses earlier, but it would take an utter fool to not realize what Rommath intends to do. Lor’themar certainly isn’t one, even if Rommath thinks he is on a regular basis. The smirk that curls the corner of Rommath lips tells Lor’themar that, for once, Rommath has faith in his mental faculties. It would be hard not to guess what direction Rommath intends to take this next with the way he teases the lace hem of his panties, pulling them down only enough that Lor’themar can see dark curls and the flushed head of his still trapped cock.

Confident that he has Lor’themar’s full attention, Rommath says, “Perhaps you’ve earned something else, another gift.” He pulls down the panties farther so that his cock is freed, the panties bunching up underneath it and against his balls. Personally Lor’themar thinks it would be torture to have them catching against his sensitive cock, but Rommath seems to like it all the better.

“I’m less sure that this is gift for me,” Lor’themar teases, “and more sure that it’s one for you.”

“Hush.” 

Despite their banter, Lor’themar’s cock twitches against his stomach once more. In his earlier years, he might have been at full hardness once more, but he’s older now and his refractory period isn’t what it used to be. He wishes it was, if only to better enjoy the sight of Rommath above him. Pre-cum drips steadily from the nearly-purple head of Rommath’s cock, landing next to his own cooling cum on his chest. The difference in temperature makes Lor’themar shiver—or it could be the thought of Rommath coming on him like this, standing over him in lace and heels.

Lor’themar reaches out to gently stroke Rommath’s calves, tracing up the back of his stockings and down once more, as Rommath starts to stroke his cock. Perhaps he could reach higher, to rake his nails down Rommath’s thighs or pinch them, but this suits him just fine for now. He also finds that it suits him to watch Rommath work his cock over him, his bottom lip caught on a short fang and a flush staining his chest and face while the wet, obscene sounds of his precum spreading over his swollen cock become louder and louder. 

It really doesn’t do anything for him physically for Rommath to potentially cum on him like this, other than perhaps a slight temperature difference between his own cool cum and Rommath’s hot cum decorating the rest of him. The thought of being pinned like this while Rommath stands above him, claiming him, though, has Lor’themar’s chest arching slightly off the floor while his nipples ache. He could move and force Rommath off him, but he doesn’t _want_ to.

“What is it about this that you like?” Lor’themar murmurs, still tracing up and down the back of Rommath’s calves. “I’d say it’s just the power play, but...I think you could get that with anyone.”

“Shut up, Theron.” 

Lor’themar ignores him.

“I think it’s because you know no one else would dare do this to me.” His nails catch in the hosiery, likely leaving runs for Rommath to agonize over later. “The powerful, clever Grand Magister, still in control as ever even when he’s wearing lace and stilettos...How _humiliating_ would it be for him to found like this? How much more humiliating would it be for me, for everyone to see him exercise such power over me in such a state?”

Rommath’s breathing is short and gasping—he’s about to come, lost in the fantasy as he is, and Lor’themar isn’t about to stop him. If anything, he wants to help him. Lor’themar pushes himself a little bit up on his elbows, enough to reach up and snap one of the straps on Rommath’s thighs and guide his hips to center more on his face. 

“Why don’t you complete that picture, for everyone to see?”

With a gasp that melts off into a high whine, Rommath’s cock jumps in his hand and hot cum begins to cover Lor’themar’s face and neck, dripping down his chest. It’s more than a little annoying to have cum caught in his eyelashes, but Lor’themar at least lets Rommath finish before he tries to clean some of it away, so he doesn’t completely hate himself later. He’s careful not to wipe away the cum on his lips. 

He kicks off his pants before pushing himself up off the floor between Rommath’s legs, guiding those legs around his hips as he goes. Lor’themar kisses him, pushing his cum-covered tongue into his pliant mouth. It takes Rommath a moment, dazed as he is from his climax, to realize what the taste is and he moans. Lor’themar takes advantage of Rommath’s off-kilter moment to push his camisole up and over his head. It’s only when he starts to mop up the cum from his chest with the free hand that isn’t hoisting Rommath up by his ass that Rommath snaps to and starts hissing his displeasure like a wet cat.

“I told you not to ruin that!” Rommath’s rather displeased countenance is ruined by the fact that his legs are wrapped around Lor’themar’s hips, with one hand steadying him on Lor’themar’s shoulder and the other trying to reclaim the soiled lace. 

“You told me not to tear it.” Ignoring Rommath, Lor’themar tosses it off to some unknown corner of the room. “You should find my actions acceptable, then, by your own orders, which—” Lor’themar tangles his hands in Rommath’s loose hair and pulls, exposing the magister’s throat, “—I believe you’ve given quite enough of this evening.”

The sound that Rommath lets out is something between confusion and arousal in the moment before Lor’themar latches onto his throat with the same sharp fangs that he treated Lor’themar to earlier. It quickly melts into what Lor’themar would call a wanton plea if it wasn’t Rommath in his arms, especially when Lor’themar forces him to keep his neck arched as he walks towards Rommath’s bed. He lets him fall back, admiring the way that Rommath’s ebony hair fans out around him on the crimson sheets. 

Any worries Lor’themar might have had at changing their dynamic so suddenly disappear when he sees Rommath’s cock already at attention once more, still on display with his balls and the panties bunched up underneath them. It would be so easy to push them down and out of the way, leaving the thick hair around Rommath’s cock free to touch and play with...so Lor’themar does. All the while, Rommath watches him with glazed eyes. He’s not necessarily stopping Lor’themar, but they’ve already been in trouble once with Rommath pulling back suddenly.

Letting his fingers trail through the dark hair disappearing between his legs, Lor’themar lets the moment settle between them. There’s still the tight tension of arousal between them, he’s sure, but he knows this is the moment he needs to let Rommath catch his breath.

“Would you prefer to fuck me instead?” Lor’themar asks, his tone intentionally blasé. “Or have nothing happen at all?” Rommath’s been riding the high of control all night, but he’ll not push the other man towards one thing or another. Lor’themar would love nothing more than to reach down between thighs covered in dark hair to tease Rommath’s hole open, but he’s aware that he’s probably upset whatever delicate control structure Rommath seems to have put in place.

It takes a small moment, so miniscule that Lor’themar thinks he might have missed the startled look on Rommath’s face, but the haughty smirk is back on the mage’s face as he lets his legs fall open so Lor’themar can press further in between them. Just as his eye catches on something glimmering just below Rommath’s sack, his companion grinds up and against his (thankfully fully) hard cock. “I’ll be generous and let you fuck me.”

“Generous, hmm?” Lor’themar gently grabs hold of Rommath’s hip and rocks him back so he can inspect what Rommath’s been hiding. His fingers slide over the smooth, bulbous end of a plug that disappears into Rommath’s slicked-up hole. It’s black, with a red jewel set in the end of it: decadent and ever-prepared, just like the Grand Magister himself. “I’m not sure if you’re generous, or desperate.”

A streak of annoyance flashes across Rommath’s face. “Does it matter?”

“No.” 

Rommath isn’t given a chance to answer before Lor’themar carefully tweaks the plug, twisting it slightly. The smoothness of movement speaks to the care in which Rommath must have put into preparing himself, and Lor’themar realizes that throughout this entire encounter (and perhaps earlier, during their disastrous meeting) that Rommath has been cavorting about with this inside him. He’d admire the other man’s composure, but the image of Rommath fucking himself down on his fingers and spreading himself to take the plug ruins any of his patience. As fast as he dares, he pulls out the plug. The noise of impatience Rommath makes (though really, it’s a whine) doesn’t expedite his movements; Lor’themar’s too enraptured by the way the pink pucker of Rommath’s hole spreads around the plug. He’s sure that Rommath feels the same way when the plug is finally out. He seems too empty and Lor’themar _needs_ to do something about it. 

“You’re quite prepared already, but—”

“Lube’s in the top drawer beside you,” Rommath hisses. “ _Hurry_.”

“If I don’t?” He’s rewarded with another hiss and some insults about his ancestry, but it’s par for the course with Rommath no matter the situation. Still, Lor’themar doesn’t waste time in slicking up his cock. His earlier orgasm had nearly been ruined and unsatisfying and he’s determined that this one won’t be so. 

Lor’themar lets one of his hands splay over Rommath’s hip, the other guiding the head of his slick cock to rub against Rommath’s entrance. It would be so easy to press in but Lor’themar pauses for a moment, thinking. He could take Rommath like this...but then the garish heels wouldn’t be seeing their full use. They’ve done so much tonight already – it would be a shame to leave them out of what will be the (probably, they’re not young anymore) final act of the evening. Instead, he carefully reaches behind Rommath and rests his hand flat against the small of his back, instructing him to “turn over.” 

It takes a moment for Rommath to respond. He seems almost dazed from how fast the situation’s been flipped on its head. Finally he rolls over onto his stomach, heels clicking as he braces himself against the floor. Lor’themar trails his fingers down Rommath’s spine, making the skin under his touch turn to gooseflesh and Rommath wiggle slightly. Is he ticklish? If there were any secrets from tonight that Rommath should worry about falling from Lor’themar’s lips, it would be that one. He imagines, with a smirk curling the corner of his lips, what Halduron might do with that situation.

“Any time now, Theron.” Any other time he’d let this level of impudence slide, even when they were acting as Regent Lord and Grand Magister...but they’re hardly that right now. Lor’themar’s fingernails dig into the gooseflesh skin of Rommath’s back with a harshness that will surely leave behind red crescents the next day.

“Where’s your legendary patience, _Grand Magister_?” Rommath tries to kick out behind him but Lor’themar steps close enough, cock in hand, that he can’t quite manage it. “Did it disappear when you swapped out your robes of office for lace? For heels?” 

It’s mostly rhetorical but Lor’themar doesn’t give him a chance to answer before pressing in. He hilts himself easily, feel as though Rommath’s warm, slick body is trying to pull him inside. He hopes it’s the preparation that lets him hilt so smoothly and not his own obtuseness to his lover’s needs, but the high, reedy noise Rommath lets out certainly isn’t one of pain. Lor’themar himself nearly bites through his lip trying to stay quiet; Rommath’s enjoyment seems to be only partly from the cock inside him. 

Circling his hips slightly before thrusting in as deep as he can manage, Lor’themar continues his taunts. This time, they’re spoken through gritted teeth. “Certainly, you could call them robes of office as well. I think they suit you, as a _slut_.” 

There it is. Rommath moans loudly and pushes his hips back, demanding _more, please_ in a high cry. Lor’themar is all too happy to oblige him. The forceful snap of his hips punches another keening sound from Rommath, almost pleasing Lor’themar more than the tightness surrounding his cock.

Almost.

It’ll be fodder for another night when he’s alone in his bed with his hand on his cock, but for now Lor’themar can only focus on the way Rommath squeezes down on him. He’s not sure if he’s doing it intentionally, but he’s betting no: Rommath seems to barely be able to keep his head up as it is, let alone be able to set his mind to intentionally tormenting Lor’themar. Something like pride wells up in his chest. _He_ is the one wrecking Rommath like this, _he_ is the one to whom Rommath has trusted to show this side of himself. No one else.

His Grand Magister makes for a pretty image on the bed before him. His black hair almost melts into the silk of his sheets. It’s stark against his sun-kissed skin, though, as are the tattoos that seem to glow and spark with each snap of Lor’themar’s skin. On a whim, Lor’themar reaches one hand to rest on the back of Rommath’s neck, squeezing to hold him in place when his thrust rocks the other man forward. Rommath moans, trying to arch up from the bed to rock back on Lor’themar’s cock. A rough push from the hand still on his neck pins his chest to the bed. The wretched heels slide out and Rommath is totally flat on the bed, powerless as Lor’themar drives into him.

“You’ll get _what_ I give you,” Lor’themar instructs him, “ _when_ I give you it. So needy, but I guess that’s to be expected when one’s as _slutty_ as you.”

Again, the word forces a high keening noise from Rommath. He doesn’t deny the allegation, but Lor’themar doesn’t expect him to. It’s all in good cheer, as much as one can be in good cheer in this situation, and Lor’themar doesn’t intend to let Rommath crash from this high alone. As he said before, nothing here changes what he thinks of Rommath other than adding to his opinion of the man _and_ his admiration, his attraction. If this is what Rommath likes, then all the better; Lor’themar’s enjoying himself quite a bit with whatever this play is between them.

It won’t be long now until Rommath comes once more. His body is heaving under Lor’themar’s grip, as if he’s forcing himself to breathe. More than once, a spark from his tattoos snaps at Lor’themar’s skin; nothing more than static, but still startling and welcome. He idly wonders, trying to keep himself calm enough to see Rommath come before him, if there could be uses for such small bits of magic in the bedroom. The thought does nothing to calm him and he forces himself to think of other things, but fails. _Just a little longer_ , he tells himself, _just a little longer and you can spend yourself inside him, make him feel your hot seed._

That thought makes it even worse.

He feels Rommath’s climax building inside him, muscles going rigid under his hands. At last, Lor’themar lets Rommath push himself up from the bed, heels clicking as he regains traction once more. Lor’themar drapes himself over Rommath’s back, his arms pulling Rommath against him. It’s good that he does, for as soon as his hold is secured, Rommath’s legs weaken and he falls once more. 

Lor’themar hears the hiccuping breaths, the high whines and moans, smells the blood as Rommath bites through his lip trying to stop himself from coming. He reaches up to pinch a nipple and whispers in Rommath’s ear, “Let go.”

He almost feels bad for the way Rommath’s climax rips through him. Rommath arches in such a way that Lor’themar thinks must be painful as he paints Lor’themar’s arms and the sheets beneath them with his seed, nearly screaming out Lor’themar’s name as he does so. 

It takes all of his will not to come right there and then as Rommath clenches down on him, the call of his name seemingly echoing through this dim chamber. Rommath is nearly insensate and Lor’themar wants him to feel, wants him to be able to remember how it feels to have Lor’themar come inside him. The only thing that keeps him from falling over that perilous and wonderful edge is slowing his pace until he’s barely moving at all, listening to Rommath compose himself underneath him.

When at last Rommath seems to be back to himself, resting his head on his arms to the side and peering at Lor’themar with only partially clouded eyes, Lor’themar resumes his pace. This time, each thrust is hard, deep and he can’t help but enjoy each whine it punches out of Rommath. He’s still over-sensitive, it seems, but Lor’themar doesn’t feel like giving him any reprieve. He’s sure Rommath will find some way to extract vengeance on him later, but all he knows now is that it makes Rommath’s passage flutter and clench around him.

In his younger years, Lor’themar might be embarrassed to have come so soon. He’s older now, though, and simply finds pleasure in being with a partner, especially one as lovely as Rommath. He follows Rommath in his climax soon after, taking care to brace his arms against the bed so he won’t crush Rommath as soon as his legs inevitably give out too. There’s joy to be found in how hot and tight and slick Rommath is, how he shivers underneath him when he feels Lor’themar’s hot cum spill into him, the weak cry he gives out. It all sharpens the edge of Lor’themar’s own climax and he releases a groan that, later, he realizes is Rommath’s name.

He pants, resting his forehead against Rommath’s sweat slicked back. Surprisingly, Rommath doesn’t complain and merely shifts beneath him, finding his feet and taking a moment to rest. Lor’themar trails a hand down Rommath’s back when he finally pushes himself up; the tattoos still glow faintly, but each pulse of arcane energy through them is fainter than the last. He can’t help but admire the gush of cum that drips down Rommath’s legs when he pulls out his cock. Said cock twitches in interest, but Lor’themar knows he’s likely done for the night. He’s not disappointed, though. It’s been a great night, and hopefully Rommath will allow a few minutes of cuddling to end it on a sweet note.

Rommath rolls over and wrinkles his nose. “You couldn’t have put on a condom? It’s going to be a pain to clean myself out.”

“Says the man who came on my face.” Lor’themar gently helps Rommath swing his legs up on to the bed. He’s still trembling from his own end; hell, Lor’themar is, too. “If it’s such a pain, let it stay.”

“You’re disgusting, Theron.” It’s not said with any real spite and Lor’themar finds himself smiling. He leans over to gently cup Rommath’s face and pull him into a sweet kiss. When Rommath returns it, just as sweetly, Lor’themar almost melts onto the sheets. 

Instead, he draws a path down Rommath’s body with his fingertips, first unhooking the garter belt at his waist and the straps, before rolling the stockings on each leg down. The wretched, wonderful heels are still on Rommath’s feet and Lor’themar can only imagine how much Rommath’s calves are burning at this point. He carefully takes them off and then the stockings. Under Rommath’s gaze, he gently kneads at his foot, chasing out the knots and tension he can feel from walking around all day in heels.

“You don’t have to do that.” It doesn’t sound like Rommath is particularly trying to protest, but Lor’themar hears the apprehension and suspicion in his voice. Have his past partners not been as considerate? It seems like a crime that they wouldn’t have been; even at Rommath’s worst in the bedroom, he’s done nothing that would warrant such treatment (or lack thereof, really).

“I want to,” Lor’themar insists. “How are you feeling?” 

Rommath doesn’t reply at first, and Lor’themar almost thinks he’s not going to get an answer. He looks up to see if Rommath’s fallen asleep, but instead he’s looking back at him with an odd look on his face. Perhaps he’s shocked at Lor’themar taking care of him. Perhaps he’s plotting his revenge for Lor’themar’s rough treatment of him. Perhaps...well, Lor’themar won’t pretend to understand entirely what goes through his Grand Magister’s mind. He thinks he does a little better after the years they’ve spent together, knowing the man as well as he does now. 

“I’m fine,” Rommath finally says. The odd expression is still on his face. “This really isn’t necessary.” “Perhaps not,” admits Lor’themar, “but I enjoy tending to my lovers. It’s a privilege to be able to serve them.”

Some parts of Rommath remain an enigma to him, though, and Lor’themar finds he doesn’t mind as much as he probably should. Others might warn him that Rommath holds the potential to be a snake in his court, but he knows that Rommath’s fangs won’t be turned towards him any time soon. At least, not the ones truly coated in venom. It’s a blessing to have earned such trust; an even bigger one to have earned his casual companionship. And this? Lor’themar’s not sure he deserves what tonight might be called. He’s tempted to call it a benediction greater than anyone or anything could offer. Rommath is worth the sacrilege, Lor’themar thinks.

Rommath disagrees.

Quick as a viper, Rommath pulls away from his touch. Any peace that’s found home on his face has melted away into something that’s not quite anger. Lor’themar’s not quite sure what to call it but it harkens back to his Farstrider days...and not in a good way. He’s left stunned for a moment as Rommath pulls away, hissing, “I’ll not have your false flatteries, your insipid placations, Theron. I have no need of them.”

It’s all Lor’themar can do to ask, “What?”, for he truly has no idea what he’s done to incur Rommath’s...Rommath’s wrath, he thinks. He’s still not sure what he’s seeing, at least until Rommath gathers the sheets around himself and the tell-tale sparkle of arcane magic dances on his fingers. 

Fear was a common sight when he was a Ranger Lord in the Farstriders. He saw it equally often on the faces of Amani trolls as he did on those of new recruits afraid of the deep forests. It greeted him when he checked his traplines, when new widows watched the parades of troops after battle. It’d been most prevalent after the Scourge; he’d hoped never to see it so intensely in someone close to him again.

Yet here Rommath is, naked save for the sheets swaddling hs hips, beholding Lor’themar with an angry, desperate sort of fear that he never thought he’d see directed towards himself from someone so close to him. He’d _hoped_ to never see it directed towards him, for what monster would hurt their loved ones so badly to see such a look? Something in Lor’themar’s chest aches sharply at the the realization. _He’s_ that monster now, though he doesn’t quite understand what he’s done to Rommath still. It doesn’t matter right now. The only thing that does is assuaging this hurt and helping Rommath feel safe once more.

Rommath doesn’t give him that chance. Lor’themar feels the spark of arcane power against his naked back as Rommath completes whatever spell accompanies the cantrip he mutters under his breath. The fear still hasn’t abated, but determination replaces the anger on Rommath’s face. Determination to protect himself from Lor’themar and whatever grave sin he’s committed, to right whatever wrong there is to be found here. 

“Rommath, wait—” The man in question quickly stands, sheets caught about his waist and held up by one hand. And the other—

The other reaches up to touch his chest almost tenderly, fingers briefly combing through golden curls—

And shoves him backward.

Lor’themar’s stomach flips from the spatial displacement when he stumbles through the portal. He should be more worried about where Rommath’s portal leads, bare as he is, but he can’t find it in himself to care. “Rommath!” he calls out once more and it’s a demand this time, for so many things: to wait, to explain himself, to lay back down so Lor’themar can drive the fear from his face and soothe him. As is the way of an unfair world, he’s not given time to voice any of these. Already, the shimmering image of Rommath grows smaller; there’s no way he can get back through. Still Lor’themar tries, reaching for the portal only for it to blink out of existence in front of his fingertips. 

The last he sees of Rommath that night is his face, full of regret.


	3. The Promise

It is unseemly of a Regent Lord to take a day off, much as Lor’themar would like to many, _many_ days. 

He has much love for his country, would give anything and everything for it without hesitation, and he has. Sometimes, though, a man needs a day to run through the forests and roll in a mud puddle, to hunt with his best friend and just...be, without gossiping nobles making his life harder. Despite that fact, Lor’themar has spent many a day dreaming out his former life as a ranger at his desk through even the worst of colds and ills, if only to see Quel’Thalas survive another day in the harsh world they live in. 

This is not one of those days.

It’s practically unheard of for him to take one day off let alone two in a row. Lor’themar knows this, but cannot find it in himself to care. He’s not been able to rest the entire night after Rommath shoved him through the portal and he’s hardly in any state to try to run a country if he can barely put on pants. He only does so when his chief of staff hesitantly knocks on his door, probably fearing for the end of Azeroth if Lor’themar Theron isn’t at his desk for a second day in a row. Lor’themar doesn’t even open the door all the way to give a response. He’s still covered in sweat and cum, his hair an absolute mess; the poor woman on the other side doesn’t need more of a fright than she’s already suffering seeing him in such crude state. 

“I’m afraid I still feel poorly today. It’s in my best interests to stay down,” Lor’themar tells her. His voice is hoarse and it’s not entirely an act. Grief, anger, and lack of sleep have left his throat feeling like he’s swallowed a glass of sand.

“Should I send a physician to attend you?”

He flinches at the thought of anyone seeing the bites and marks that litter his skin. Hopefully the door is closed enough that she can’t see them. “No, not now, but I’ll let you know if I feel differently later.” “If that is what you wish, Lord Theron. I’ll have breakfast sent up shortly.”

“Thank you.” He shuts the door and lets out a sigh. A small amount of guilt is already setting in from shirking his work like this, but he can’t even find it in himself to wash and dress right now. How could he even begin to attend to any crises in a state such as this?

Quickly, Lor’themar finds that facing the day even with how he feels might have been a better choice. Thoughts of Rommath haunt him when he lays back down on his bed and pulls the sheets over him once more. His mind trips again and again over the thought of Rommath’s fearful face and then the one of regret. It pores over his actions, demanding answers for what poor behavior caused such grief for his friend; it finds none. 

A knock at his door interrupts the vicious cycle of his thoughts and Lor’themar flips over with his back to the door, intending to hide his sorry state like a dog with its tail between its legs. “Enter!” he calls. It’s almost certain to be a servant with a horridly bland breakfast. Moping, he wonders if he even deserves that if he’s skipping out on his work for the day.

The door creaks open and he hears the swish of cloth as the servant lets themself in. Oddly, the door shuts behind them; perhaps there’s a message to be delivered with breakfast that requires privacy. He knows he’s just making up excuses when he hears the _click-click-click_ of cursed, wretched heels against the wood floor before their sound is muffled by the thick carpet.

Lor’themar whirls around in a flurry of blankets and sheets. His hot fury is met with an equal coolness in Rommath’s face, standing before him with a breakfast tray in his hands and red heels on his feet. At first glance, he seems largely unruffled by Lor’themar’s anger. He stands at attention before him as if quietly awaiting a regular dictation from his Regent Lord instead of wearing heels and a necklace of bruises laying hidden below his collar. It only stokes the coals of Lor’themar’s anger to see him in such an impeccable state to his own misery.

“The audacity of you, to show yourself here!” Lor’themar finds himself almost barking. “I thought your cruel, sharp edges to be smoothed by time and trust, but obviously I was a fool. You dare come to my rooms after humiliating me so, meaning to offer me hollow platitudes? Wearing those damned things? I should have you thrown from my chambers this instant.”

The silence that serves as Rommath’s response tells Lor’themar that he doesn’t disagree with his sentiment. Rommath sets the breakfast tray down on the dresser without a word and avoids Lor’themar’s heavy gaze. It’s unlike Rommath to be so demure but his humbled demeanour does nothing to quell Lor’themar’s anger.

When he presents himself to Lor’themar once more, standing at attention on the plush Pandaren rug, it’s Lor’themar’s first inclination once more to push him from his chambers and let the guards outside deal with his disgraced Grand Magister. The only thing that stops him is Rommath’s unusual reticence and his long friendship with him. 

Anger or no, Lor’themar considers himself a fair man; he will give Rommath a chance. If he finds his explanation lacking, well—they will figure it out after Lor’themar’s bruised ego has healed enough to stand up to the Grand Magister. Rommath will only be the Grand Magister to him once more as he has not been in years. He will no longer be one of his closest allies, his friend, his lover. His life will be less without Rommath to fill so many parts of it.

The sharp hurt in his chest at the thought pushes Lor’themar to ask, “Why are you here, Rommath?”

If possible, Rommath draws himself up taller. It’s something Lor’themar has seen many times, Rommath steeling himself against some unpleasant encounter. Was last night really that awful for him? Though...Rommath’s gaze remains fixed on the ground, firmly away from the confrontation that will surely happen if he looks up. There isn’t any judgement waiting for Lor’themar, at least. 

He dislikes this situation more by the minute.

A moment passes, and then another—and then, Rommath says. “I...have made a grave error. Anything that happened last night does not fall on your shoulders. The fault lies on mine alone.”

“So you regret all of it, then.” It’s not a question. “Your rejection could have been kinder, or at least found me with more clothes on if last night was truly unpleasant.”

Rommath looks almost sick at Lor’themar’s words, pale and wan with his normally rigid ears drooping. Such bare emotion is rare from him and to have inspired it makes Lor’themar feel rather distressed himself. Sighing, he moves over in bed, patting the quilt. “You’d best sit before you keel over, Rommath. I may be furious, but I’d rather not explain why the Grand Magister has suffered a head injury in my chambers while I’m in such a debauched state.”

With no small amount of hesitance, Rommath crosses the room to perch on his bed. He’s as far down as he can manage at Lor’themar’s feet with a hand on a post at the end, as if to steady himself. The furrow of Rommath’s eyebrows tells of his internal struggle to find words, any words, to assuage this situation. Lor’themar waits, and waits, and waits, the silence stretching onward.

Finally, he is rewarded.

“I...enjoyed the time spent with you.” Rommath’s hands have twisted themselves into the quilt on top of Lor’themar’s bed and he can almost hear the seams screaming in distress.

“Then why push me away?” Lor’themar snaps before trying to reel himself back in. Usually he has some amount of patience for Rommath’s tantrums and games, but he’ll not be insulted with lies in his own quarters and especially not after such a miserable end to a night. “Why literally shove me through a portal, with such a cold dismissal?”

His anger is met with silence and immediately Lor’themar regrets it. Losing his temper with Rommath certainly had been more common in the early days of his tenure, but Rommath had met it with his own. Over time, they’ve become more attuned to each other and started steadily working towards the same goals not just as peers, but as friends. 

In the face of his anger, his rage, Rommath has never reacted like this. The troubled look on his face is reminiscent of the fear and regret from the prior night and again, something aches sharply in Lor’themar’s chest. _Calm down_ , he scolds himself. _Let him talk. He is a man of logic beyond all else_. _Surely he had his reasons._

“You must understand, having any sort of intimacy is a privilege I’m not party to,” Rommath tries once more. “All have been... _are_...nameless, faceless, forgotten in the morning, only chasing their own pleasure. If they do not, they’re after something I will never give them, using me as a stepping stone to power. It’s not just now—I could not be so lucky for that to be so. It started with my friendship and love for Kael, and has endured ever since. You are like none of these people, offering understanding and affection I can barely wrap my mind around.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Brightwing has called me a wiseman, a mastermind, many a time. It is normally a point of pride for me to be so regarded, even when such names are assigned with pure derision. To not know or predict how any given situation will develop is anathema to me, Lor’themar. You know this. I play through each day masterfully as a game of fethesi against a simple opponent. What you gave, what you offered me...inspired fear and doubt. “I...you talked about how it was a privilege to serve me,” he continues. Lor’themar hears several seams pop. “To serve a...a lover. I hardly thought myself worthy of that privilege, let alone to be called such a tender epithet.” “My lover?”

“Yes.”

Lor’themar finds himself startled enough he can only stare at Rommath for a few moments; despite this, Rommath doesn’t meet his eyes. “What would you have me call you, then?” Lor’themar asks. “What have your past partners called you?”

“Nothing. They haven’t called me anything. They’ve never needed to, for I’ve been nothing beyond a warm body in bed with them. What title do I deserve, what treatment do I deserve, for that?”

It takes all of Lor’themar’s might to reel in his fury and redirect it elsewhere. The promise to himself of speaking with the Bronze Dragonflight later to find some way to go back and punch every single one of Rommath’s lovers helps significantly, but that comfort is only for himself. Rommath still perches on the edge of his bed awkwardly, waiting for some kind of answer. Whether he expects Lor’themar to sympathize with his prior lovers or not is unknown to him, but Lor’themar certainly will not.

“Am I nothing more than a warm body to you, then?” he asks. Rommath recoils.

“No!” He falters when Lor’themar raises his eyebrows. “No, you are...you are my lord, my friend, my…” “Lover?” Lor’themar suggests. Rommath makes a face and though it’s hard to say what it is, Lor’themar allows himself to hope it’s not one of disgust. “You see, now, why I could call you nothing else. You are more than a warm body to me, as am I to you...which is why I still struggle to understand why you punished us both so, by pushing me away.”

“What am I to do, when my trust has always been rewarded poorly? It’s madness at this point to believe the pattern will change. I almost wish it hadn’t with you, because I don’t know what to do. You are an unknown of such vastness that it scares me, Lor’themar. It truly does, because I cannot begin to guess at how your disdain will affect me. Already, it hurts me more than I would care to admit.”

“I hold not an ounce of disdain for you, Rommath.” Lor’themar leans back against his pillows and pats the bed near his hip but is met with a wary look. He sighs. “I am frustrated, yes, but I would fear you to be an imposter if you didn’t inspire that in me in some way. Even that has waned since you sat on my bed and trusted me with your thoughts and fears.”

Something like a smile quirks the corner of Rommath’s mouth, barely visible over the high cowl. “It’s not my job to pander to you. You might find yourself with less frustration if you listened to me more often.”

“I never said it was,” Lor’themar says. He leans forward and reaches out for Rommath, his fingers barely brushing the embroidery on the magister’s robe, “though you might be right. I’m listening to you now and certainly much of my frustration has abated.”

When he reaches out for Rommath once more, Rommath leans into Lor’themar’s touch and allows him to get a light grip on his robes and tug him to his side. Rommath hesitates when Lor’themar tries to guide him onto his lap and Lor’themar quickly lets go, not wanting to push his friend, his lover, across boundaries yet to be set. 

A heartbeat passes and suddenly Rommath is straddling his lap, robes rucked up to his thighs, damned stockings and heels sinfully on display once more. It takes all of Lor’themar’s will to not seize Rommath’s hips and grind up against him. He has no doubt that Rommath can feel his half hard cock announcing its interest in this handsome man but he’ll not scare away his lover once more. He desires that Rommath return to his bed, to him, again and again—fracturing the tentative trust by being a brute will surely not secure that.

Compromising with his need to touch and feel Rommath, Lor’themar reaches up to cup his face. It’s too easy to lose himself to Rommath’s effortless beauty, the way his dark lashes fan over his cheekbones when his eyes slide shut, the dusting of pink across the bridge of his nose. He pulls himself from his worship: there might be a more thorough way to pursue it later and he’ll not settle for less now, if Rommath wishes it.

Without opening his eyes, Rommath murmurs, “Surely your patience will abate soon as well, with my reticence and quarreling.”

“Never.” Lor’themar gently traces Rommath’s cheekbones with his thumbs. “For as long as your trust lasts, so will my patience.”

“And will your desire endure, too?” Rommath’s hands find purchase on his shoulders, before sliding down his bare chest. “I am fickle and barbed, capricious and hard to love in bed. Another lover would serve you better.”

“I will broker no substitutes now that I’ve known you,” Lor’themar insists. He smooths down the high cowl and touches his forehead to Rommath’s own. It is with a whisper, a breath against Rommath’s lips, that he says, “Let me touch you, pleasure you. I want you, Rommath, my lover, for _you_. If I were content with a faceless companion, I wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t risk whatever love and trust you have given me through many long years. Let me worship you, as any of your lovers should have.”

Rommath is silent long enough that Lor’themar begins to worry that he will reject him once more. Finally, his eyes flutter open and meet Lor’themar’s gaze. “Were you anyone else, I might doubt your ardour.”

“I am not.” Their lips nearly touch in their quiet murmurs. “And neither are you, so irreplaceable and unique. Please, Rommath, let me have you once more.” 

The gentle kiss pressed to his lips is a more than sufficient answer but so is the “yes” whispered into it. For the moment, Lor’themar finds himself glad that his hands still cradle Rommath’s face: any other place might have inspired him to press Rommath against him harshly, to enjoy the heat and bow of his lover’s body. He would have missed out on the shy press of lips, the slight shiver that shoots down Rommath’s spine, the soft, harsh breaths that escape them both. How different this is from the flurry of last night, of the passion that ensnared them both.

How wonderful this is as its own delight.

The moment melts into something unbearably hot, dripping down his spine and chest like molten gold. At last, Lor’themar allows himself to explore Rommath’s body, his hands sliding down his neck to his chest, enjoying the hitch of Rommath’s breath when his fingertips slide none-too-gently over his still clothed nipples. Lor’themar smoothes his hands around to Rommath’s back, tracing the curve of his spine down to his ass. He hesitates for a moment: perhaps he’s pushing Rommath too fast, too far. The way Rommath nuzzles underneath his unshaven chin and twists his body under Lor’themar’s touch to guide him further banishes any doubts remaining in his mind.

He’s not entirely surprised when his calloused fingertips find a soft surprise waiting for him under Rommath’s robes. “Hopeful, were you?” he asks. Lor’themar barely slips his fingers under the lacy garments, petting the soft skin he finds there, but it’s still enough to inspire a shiver from Rommath.

“Perhaps your abundant generosity has inspired no small amount of greed in me.”

“Then I’m more than happy to continue inspiring it.” He honestly would, but reality pulls him back from his fantasy. His skin is still flaky with dried cum, pulling uncomfortably with every moment; his stubble catches and yanks against the fine thread of Rommath’s hair. Yes, Lor’themar would be happy to inspire it but now is not the time.

His kingdom for one day in his life to not go south, he thinks bitterly before feeling guilty. No, not his kingdom, for though he dislikes where his life has ended up, he’ll not further damn his people for his vices. But...to have one day as Lor’themar instead of Lord Regent would be nice. Or a night, once more.

Rommath might well be good for him, thorns and all.

Before Lor’themar can express his hesitance, Rommath sighs and presses a soft kiss under his jaw. Lor’themar can barely see the glow of his eyes.

“Not today?” Rommath asks. His teeth find purchase on Lor’themar’s skin once more and he tugs lightly.

“If you can stand such disappointment this early in the morning, then yes.” He strokes his knuckles down Rommath’s spine, enjoying the soft feeling of both skin and lace. “I prefer the stage of our love making to not be one where I’m filthy with the cum of the night before.”

Rommath’s ears twitch enough at “love making” that one of them thwaps Lor’themar in the face, nearly poking out his remaining eye. His teeth finally sink into Lor’themar’s skin, prompting a gasp, and he purrs, “I think I could change your mind.”

“I think that want is rather one-sided seeing that it’s your cum on my skin. One of us had the chance to get cleaned up.”

“You had that chance as well, you just didn’t take it.” Rommath half-yowls when Lor’themar seizes him with an arm and squeezes him tightly against his chest. It might be louder, if not for the air escaping his lungs. He gasps out, “Don’t be petty, it’s unbecoming of a Regent Lord.”

“So is kicking a man when he’s down,” Lor’themar points out. He can’t help the smirk on his face. “Let’s not measure tit-for-tat like children. I’ll concede that I could have taken the chance, but I was mourning the loss of such a pleasing, gorgeous lover.”

He expects Rommath to protest in some fashion once more; instead, the man pushes himself up with a hand against Lor’themar’s chest and studies him with an oddly subdued look. Quietly, he says, “That’s a poor excuse, Theron...considering I was doing the same in my rooms.”

His words take a moment to sink in fully. Lor’themar’s heart thuds harshly once, twice, extolling in his joy. His actions are more discreet: he reaches up once more to cradle Rommath’s face and gently pull him into a kiss, perfect and sweet and conveying more than could ever be said in that moment. 

“Stay here with me?” he whispers against Rommath’s lips. “Perhaps with a wash and some breakfast, I’d be more amenable to continuing where we left off last night.”

A bright laugh escapes Rommath and Lor’themar’s not sure he’s ever heard such a joyful sound from his Grand Magister. “If we continue where we left off, we’ll end up doing nothing at all.”

“Would that be so unpleasant? I’ve always enjoyed your company, even when you wield your tongue like a sword...and it might be nothing for you, but I fully intend on continuing my worship and adoration of you, in whatever form you may choose.”

For a moment, Rommath seems to consider it. His cocks his head and his eyebrows come together, pondering this unfamiliar thing Lor’themar has offered him. At last, he shakes his head. “No, not now,” he says. “I came here, honestly thinking you would turn me away and that I would go about my day. You are right that now is not the time—not all of us can or should take sick days, Lord Regent. Speaking of which…” He climbs off Lor’themar’s lap, gracefully balancing on the heels for a moment before yanking the blankets off of Lor’themar. “You have better things to do than playing hooky.”

Lor’themar squawks and draws his knees up to his chest, prompting another laugh from Rommath. If not at his own expense he would be glad to hear it; as it stands, his skin prickles from the cold. “I’m in no such condition to be conducting state matters!” he insists, before a wicked idea occurs to him. “I could, however, be guided into such readiness, should my Grand Magister assist me.”

“I’m fairly certain that you’re able to tend to yourself, Theron.” Rommath sets about putting his high cowl to rights. “But...if it would incentivize you, I will entertain a request.”

“You’ll make a menace of me, offering such a thing. I’ll demand it every day.” 

“Perhaps I would humor your demands if it would keep you away from the bottle.” Rommath waits for his answer in a mockery of patience. 

Only one thing comes to mind as Lor’themar swings his legs over the edge of the bed and stands. Even with the heels, he still has an inch or so of height on Rommath. Stepping close to him, Lor’themar says, “It is but a small thing.”

“Oh?”

“Wear those heels for me. Every day, every night. You might do more good for my work ethic and Quel’Thalas than anything else has for years.”

Chuckling, Rommath leans in to kiss him. It’s not like the kiss before; Rommath pricks his bottom lip with sharp fangs and sucks, drawing blood from an already abused mouth. “A small wish,” he says, “but a simple one.”

“At the end of the day, I am a simple man,” Lor’themar says. Hot blood drips down his chin. “Perhaps aspiring for more than I should. Ask my lover and he’ll tell you. He’s more than I deserve.”

“Perhaps I will.” Rommath draws back and smooths out his robes. “For now, wash and dress. Politics waits for no one, Lord Regent. Shall I call upon you at the end of the hour?”

If you have confidence that I’ll be presentable, then yes.” Lor’themar can’t help the stupid grin on his face. Surely his mouth and teeth are bloodied and he looks every bit of the wreck Rommath has left him, but in this moment he’s the happiest he’s been in years.

Rommath returns his grin with a small smile, the corners of his mouth barely visible above his cowl. “More than you’ll ever know, Theron. More than you’ll ever know.”

The click of heels announces Rommath’s retreat from his quarters; it will return later, in his office, in the side rooms of the Spire, in quiet corners with stolen moments, Lor’themar is sure. For now he is left standing, grinning, wiping away the blood from his mouth, wondering after his Grand Magister...

And the damned red heels on his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And...the end! Over half a year of work and upwards of 19k words, and we've finally reached the finish line. Thank you all for reading and the love you've given this. <3 As always, eternal thanks to Helen, Ceci, and Astrid.


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